The Ecstasy Effect
by Partners In Fanfic
Summary: ...Or the four conversations that probably should have taken place after the end of "Identity Crisis." Turns out the consequences of a night filled with MDMA make people chatty, too.
1. Fusco

_**DISCLAIMER: I STILL DON'T OWN PERSON OF INTEREST. OH THE THINGS I'D DO IF I DID. **_

**A/N: **Hey, everyone! So, I've been toying with about 5 different fics from Identity Crisis (the fangirl side of me was upset that we didn't get to see the after-effects of the episode, hence this story), and I decided to basically group them all together in one fic. And this is it. What I have planned is 4 conversations centered around the events of the episode. Anyway, hope you all like it! Happy Easter/Passover to all those who celebrate! -EAJP

******_Set the afternoon after the end of episode "Identity Crisis"_******_  
_

* * *

Fusco sat staring at his cell phone, contemplating. Of course, when he finally managed to break away for lunch at his favorite diner, _they_ would somehow find a way to invade what should have been an enjoyable meal.

_They_ – being Mr. Friend of a Friend and the Guy in the Suit – seemed to have taken up permanent residence at the front of the back of Fusco's mind, and in all honesty it wasn't bothering the detective as much as it used to. They pissed him off, sure, but at least they weren't HR.

Fusco ran a hand wearily over his face. Ever since he got up that morning, he had been having an internal debate over whether or not to call and check up on Mr. Friend of a Friend. The detective felt semi-responsible for the guy, seeing as though he was the one to babysit him part of the night before – and rescue him from a kitchen appliance.

Obviously, the guy was a lightweight when it came to drugs, so he'd probably still be stumbling around half out of it, but the Suit would be up and prowling around, right? He probably never even slept – ever. But did Fusco really want to show the Suit that he kind of actually cared about the two of them?

No, but what the hell. It wasn't like he never asked about their well-beings before. So, without giving too much thought to it, he picked up his cell phone and dialed the Suit's number.

"_Hello, Lionel. In trouble with some drug lords again_?"

Fusco rolled his eyes. "Very funny. Can you get over that already?"

The line was quiet for a few moments. "_Not any time soon, no. What exactly do you need, Detective?"_

Fusco sighed, exasperated. Then, he replied, "Nothing. Curiosity got the best of me – how's our mutual friend doing?"

"_Worried?"_ The mirth was evident in the other man's voice.

Fusco scowled at nothing. "Well, when I found him last night, he was having a party with a microwave, so excuse me for half-expecting to see a police report about him shutting down the internet or something."

Fusco could hear the smirk in the other man's voice. "_Your concern is touching. I'll be sure to pass it along."_

Why did it always feel like this guy was mocking him? "Hey, you never answered my question."

Suit took a few moments to respond. "_He's fine. But, I don't think he'll be taking drinks from beautiful women any time soon."_

"I'm sure the women of New York will be disappointed to hear that," Fusco said sarcastically. That woman must have slipped something into his drink, he mused with a silent laugh. Still though, it was a relief to hear that the bespectacled man was alright.

The Suit let out a quiet laugh. "_Enjoy the rest of your lunch, Detective."_ Fusco heard the _click_ of the call disconnecting and shook his head. He placed his phone back on the table and rubbed his eyes. He didn't even _want_ to know how the Suit knew that.

The call left Fusco's worry sated for the present moment. At least Mr. Friend of a Friend was alright – or as alright as one could be after spending half the night on ecstasy. Even though he was annoying at times, making the detective run around and do his bidding, Fusco would hate to see something happen to him – or the Suit for that matter.

Yeah, those guys were a pain in the ass, but Fusco would be damned if he thought he didn't feel the need to watch out for them a little.

But that didn't mean that _they_ needed to know that. Next time one of them decided to sneak up on him and demand his services, it'd be business as usual.

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**So, like it? Hate it? Leave a comment...reviews are love and coffee. =)**

**Celebration alert! **This fic officially marks my TENTH POI fanfiction and my THIRTIETH overall fic. Just want to take a moment and thank all my readers and reviewers for all the support. =)


	2. Finch

**_DISCLAIMER: I STILL DON'T OWN PERSON OF INTEREST._**

**A/N: **Hey everyone (again)! So, here's the next chapter. It's a little bit longer because it was originally supposed to be a stand-alone oneshot. But, I threw it in here. =) I didn't put in as much reflection in it as usual, mainly because I felt Finch would be a little too confused still to do some serious contemplation. So yeah. Hope you all enjoy it! -EAJP

****Set the morning after the ending of "Identity Crisis"****

* * *

The moment Finch woke up, he remembered why he never went to frat parties back in college. He never understood the appeal of becoming incoherent and subsequently suffering. Now that he was older, that feeling became even less appealing, if that was even possible. Especially when he woke up feeling like a truck hit him. Twice.

Before opening his eyes, Finch groggily attempted to assess the damage. His head was pounding, his mouth was dry, and it felt like his tongue was literally glued to the roof of his mouth. And even worse, Finch could feel the sharp pain already starting to form in his neck and leg from the odd position he had been sleeping in all night.

Welcome to the morning after the night before, the recluse thought bitterly.

Finch slowly opened his eyes and attempted to sit up, hip protesting. Ignoring the pain (at least for now), he gently pulled a blanket off him and swung his legs over the side of the couch. His feet connected with several water bottles, all empty. Did he really drink all those last night? And who put the blanket on him? Reese?

At the thought of Reese, Finch's eyes widened and wondered just what he had done last night. He quickly stood up (noting with disdain the disheveled appearance of his clothing) and started to make his way toward his computer, determined to view the surveillance footage from the cameras in the library to see what had happened the night before.

Finch limped around the corner and stopped dead in his tracks. He was never one to think wishfully, but at that moment if the floor would have opened up and ate him, well, that would have been fine by him. Because sitting in his computer chair was Reese, casually reading the paper.

"Good morning, Harold," Reese said with a smirk, setting aside his copy of _The Wall Street Journal_.

Finch blinked at him, unsure of what to say. He felt silly, standing there looking like a wreck while Reese sat there, calm and collected as always.

Reese, however, seemed to take no notice. He gestured vaguely to the paper and remarked, "There's still some fallout over Vertanen. Seems like everyone's getting what they deserve."

Finch smiled weakly and attempted to analyze the various objects setting on his table that caught his eye. In addition to a coffee (Reese's presumably), there was another six-pack of water, a bottle of Advil, a cup of tea, and a bagel. The bespectacled man raised an eyebrow. Did Reese really buy those for him?

Reese followed the man's gaze and explained, "Wasn't sure what you had around here. So, I stopped at the store."

Finch nodded, unsure of what to say, and walked over to the table. He picked up the Advil bottle and got two pills for himself before grabbing some water. "Thank you, Mr. Reese," he replied without meeting the other man's gaze.

It was then that he noticed the booking photo of the woman who had drugged him. He held it up questioningly and Reese replied, "Fusco sent it over. Her name's Tara. They're trying to figure out how many more people she's scammed."

Finch nodded again slowly and sank down into a nearby chair. He wasn't sure what to say to Reese. He was positive that his behavior during the prior night was embarrassing, to say the least. Judging by the bits and pieces of the night Finch remembered well, he was assured of that. And by the looks of it, Reese never left the library. Finch sighed internally and realized that he _had_ to say something, if only to address the MDMA-fueled elephant in the room.

The recluse cleared his throat awkwardly. "I apologize for however I acted last night, Mr. Reese. I'm sure my behavior was less than exemplary."

The other man let out a quiet laugh. "It's not really your fault, Finch. You didn't ask to be drugged."

"But still," Finch argued, "I should have never trusted her. I should have –"

Reese cut him off. "It happens to the best of us," he said nonchalantly.

Finch remained silent for a few moments. Then, he finally looked up at Reese and said, "Thank you, John, for well, watching out for me."

Reese nodded once. "I owed you one, anyway."

Finch sighed, exasperated. "Can't you just say you're welcome?"

The ex-operative smirked and didn't answer him. Instead, he said, "You look like hell. Take the day off."

Finch balked. Did he really look _that _bad? "I assure you, Mr. Reese, that really isn't –"

"Go." Reese pointed to the door while turning his attention back to the paper. Conversation over, Finch guessed.

The bespectacled man sighed. It couldn't hurt to take a day for himself. He stood up, joints aching, and made his way toward the door. "Call me if there's a new number," he said, grabbing a suit jacket to cover up his disheveled waist coat. (Reese, of course, didn't respond.)

Finch limped down the library steps and out the door. As he started the walk toward his closest house, terror gripped him as a memory from last night flashed before his eyes. Had he really told Reese to ask him anything?

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**Like it? Leave a comment...reviews are, as always, love and coffee. =)**


	3. Reese

**_DISCLAIMER: STILL DON'T OWN PERSON OF INTEREST._**

**A/N: **Alright, hey everyone! So, here's Reese's POV. I apologize for not getting this up sooner, but last week was CRAZY and I didn't have time to really sit down and focus on writing. But here it is! I kind of felt like Reese wouldn't leave Finch to his own devices (even if he promised to stick around), so yeah. Hope you all enjoy it! -EAJP

* * *

Reese paused when he reached the landing of the marble staircase. He _had_ planned on seeking refuge in one of the many rooms of the library for the night. That way, he'd be able to rest _and_ keep an eye on Finch. But a part of him felt bad for leaving Finch on his own, even if he was still technically in the building. Reese wasn't sure he wanted to know what kind of trouble Finch could get himself into – especially when Reese forgot (again) to lock up his arsenal. He really didn't need another tear gas grenade incident any time soon.

With a sigh, Reese turned on his heel and silently made his way past all the piles of books. He reentered the hallway and paused for a moment, trying to determine where his employer was. After stalking down one of the many long rows of bookshelves, he found the man in question sitting in an arm chair, half-empty bottle of water in one hand and book in the other.

The recluse glanced up, surprised, from his novel. "Oh, you're back!" he declared happily, "Forget something?"

Reese shifted a tad uncomfortably. "No, not really."

Finch nodded, apparently satisfied with the answer. "Well, sit down then," he said, gesturing grandly to another chair.

Reese hesitated a second before accepting the offer. He didn't want to interact _too_ much with this side of Finch out of fear that he would give in and ask him about the machine and that mysterious Will character. But, sitting with him couldn't hurt, he mused, so he did.

"So what should we talk about?" Finch asked, finishing off his bottle of water and grabbing another one.

"Let's _not_ talk," Reese replied evenly.

"Oh, come on!" the billionaire protested, "Isn't that what friends do?"

Reese blinked at him. Friends. That was an interesting development. Is that what they really were? Or was that just the ecstasy talking?

Reese shook his head slightly and made a mental note to dwell on that thought later. "You're a very private person, Harold," he reiterated firmly.

"Meh." The other man shrugged his shoulders exaggeratedly. "I'm going to have to trust somebody, riiighht? Might as well be my friend."

Reese frowned. This was what he wanted, wasn't it? He wanted Finch to talk, to drop his guard so that he could have a chance to learn more about his employer. And here was his opportunity, and he wasn't taking it. Maybe he would have taken it back in the CIA. In fact, he _knew_ he would have. But that was the old John Reese. _That_ John Reese didn't care. _This_ John Reese did. And _this_ John Reese wasn't going to betray his friend.

"Just sit there and read your book," Reese finally instructed, his voice betraying no emotion. "Drink some more water, too." Still, the operative felt a pang of guilt when he saw the look of child-like hurt on the man's face. But it was for the best – for both of them, really.

Reese stared out the window as Finch read. After a few minutes' worth of silence, Finch stood up. "Don't move, I'll be right back," he said, hobbling off quickly out of sight.

Reese looked after his retreating figure worriedly. He contemplated following, but in a short amount of time, Finch returned with a book in his hand. "Here," he said, handing it to Reese. "If you going to sit here, you should at least have something to read. This one reminds me of you." He smiled broadly before returning to his seat.

Reese glanced at the title and inwardly smirked. _The Count of Monte Cristo_. "Thanks," he said, glancing up.

Finch nodded distractedly. Suddenly feeling compelled to mention something about his history with the book, Reese continued, "This was the –"

"Shh!" Finch cut him off, pressing a finger to his lips. "We're not talking! Remember?"

"Right." With a sheepish half-smile, Reese opened up to the first chapter and began to read, glad that he had decided to keep Finch company after all.

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**Like it? Leave a comment...Reviews, as always, are love and coffee.**

**NOTE: **_The Count of Monte Cristo_ reference was part Jim Caviezel allusion (he was the title character in the 2002 movie), part earlier-episode reference, part me giving some props to one of my FAVORITE BOOKS EVER. Seriously, if you're ever looking for something to read that's both interesting, classic, and very meaningful, read this book. You'll be picturing Reese as Dantes in no time. =)


	4. Carter

**_DISCLAIMER: STILL DON'T OWN PERSON OF INTEREST._**

**A/N:** Hey everyone! So, here's the LAST installment of my oneshot collection for this series. I took a little bit more of an artistic license on this one, but I felt that Finch mentioned Carter enough to maybe pay her a visit. So yeah. Hope you all enjoy it! (And enjoy tomorrow's new episode!) -EAJP

* * *

Carter resisted the urge to scream when she saw who was calling her again. This was John's tenth time calling her today. _Tenth time_. When was he going to take the hint that she was through with him and his vigilante sense of justice? She was _done_ with him – and now all she needed to do was convince him (and herself) of that.

The detective tossed her phone on her coffee table and rolled her eyes as the doorbell rang. She assumed it was Taylor, since they were supposed to go out to dinner and he was coming home from his friend's house.

"Forget your keys again?" Carter called out, laughter in her voice.

She didn't bother checking to see if it actually _was_ Taylor, but when she opened the door, she realized she probably should have.

"Hello, Detective Carter," Finch greeted, professional as ever.

Carter stood there and stared at her rather unwelcome houseguest. Something was odd about him today -he was using a cane and looked a little more haggard than he usually did. Either way, Carter didn't want to be looking at him. Without saying a word, she slammed the door in his face.

Or at least tried to. Finch moved his cane quicker than Carter thought he could and wedged it in the door.

"I promise you, Detective, this will only take a moment."

Joss glared at the older man for a second. "Fine," she conceded, "But you have five minutes, you hear me? _Five._"

"Thank you," Finch replied as Carter stepped aside and let him in. "That's all I need."

"Mhm," Carter replied, lips pursed. "Take a seat." She gestured toward her living room and Finch hobbled over to one of her arm chairs.

Carter sat back down on her sofa and ran a hand through her hair tiredly. "Alright, Mr. Burdette-Or-Whatever-Your-Name-Is, what do you want?"

"Well," Finch paused for a moment, weighing his words before continuing, "I _want_ you to get over your disagreement with John."

"You want me to _what_?" Carter exclaimed, eyes wide, "He _gave up_ Moretti's safe house. That's not even a disagreement."

"He didn't have a choice –" Finch protested weakly.

"Didn't have a choice," Carter mocked angrily, "Both of you. I'm sick of both of you. You're too worried about playing God to actually care about anyone else."

"Detective, I know the situation isn't ideal –"

"You're damn right, it's not ideal. You two have me running around with the FBI and the CIA after me, and you don't do a thing in return."

Finch sighed, "Detective Carter, I admit, our methods aren't particularly easy to deal with, but we're helping people – _you're_ helping people."

Carter stared at him, her face set in a hard line. "Your five minutes are almost up."

Finch rubbed his knee uncomfortably. "All I'm asking is that you at least consider talking to John again. I promise you that we'll do what we can to help your fight with Elias when the time comes."

After a few moments, Carter decided that this mystery man was being sincere. With a sigh, she resigned, "Okay, I'll think about it. But I'm not making any promises."

"I'm glad to hear that," Finch replied, a slight smile gracing his lips, "I'll show myself out."

Carter waved a hand at him in a dismissive manner and watched him limp toward the door.

Right as Finch put his hand on the doorknob, Carter sprung up from her seat. "Hey, wait a second."

Finch raised an eyebrow at her. "Yes, Detective?"

"What's with the cane?" she asked, "And why do you look like you spent an entire weekend drinking it up or something?"

"I had a rough night." Finch looked at her somewhat annoyed - whether at her or the memory of what happened, she wasn't sure.

"A rough night? Kidnap another baby?"

Finch suppressed a chuckle. "Let's just say I didn't feel like my usual self."

"Whatever." Carter looked doubtful but accepted the explanation. "Have a good night."

"You too, Detective." With that, her unexpected visitor vanished out the door and into the night.

Joss stared at the closed door for a minute before turning her attention to her cell again. That guy was probably right – John did what he had to do. Hell, Carter might have done the same thing if she were in his position.

With that in mind, Carter felt her anger toward him deflate. She even considered returning John's call, but decided against it. That mess could wait until morning.

Besides, Carter always found it fun to play hard-to-get every once in a while.

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**Like it? Leave a comment...reviews are love and coffee!**

**THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR READING! =)**


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